Tired. Not even in much mood to write. The novel, definitely not being touched tonight. Need a break. Just thinking about strategy to employ to contribute to its content, stressing the writer. Busy day at winery, with 2 mountain tours, pourings between. Can’t shed this exhaustion. I need to write tonight! Feel like popping a bottle of anything red just to keep me awake. Maybe one of the bottles Mom and Dad picked up for me at Lancaster, but not from club shipment. Something red, let me think…
On wine’s wind, I tasted from both of my barrels today. Disliked both. Blame the Zin addition. Not sure what to think. Having my first insecure moment as maker of wine, today. Still, right now. But I remember what Katie said: “If you second guess yourSelf as a winemaker, you’ll never make wine.” Brought a sparkling berry water upstairs, to close session. I’ll have to concede, reader, I poised for surrender tonight. Just wanting sleep. If I open wine, have a couple glasses, what will that do for me? Saving Self for tomorrow night, when I can capture all around me, like Nick at Gatsby’s parties.
Setting alarm for 6am, tomorrow, when Jackie usually wakes. Strange not having him, Alice here. But I have to write in the lean I find Self streamed. Tomorrow morning, strongest of caffeine. And, if I can note: proud I’m stopping at this one beer, here in house tonight. Morrow’s eve, only pages. The wine industry should have never let a writer into its halls. Adjunct folly, what I feel. But all I can do is wait till 4/21, when they said I have to call. All more reason why I have to make my own money moat. Hate this dependency on winery, campus. What if I only had to lean on Self, what I wrote. Soon the case, it’s WRITTEN.
4/13/13 — 8:09am. Not as early as I wanted to be at keys, but I’m here. No coffee yet. Hurt from little I last night sipped. Should be warm all over wine country, both sides of the mountain. Tonight, hoping to not be out too late. Can’t handle late nights as I used to. And even though I’ll be in NewJournalist mode, I am going to make it early back to castle, or try. Dialogue from yesterday, where a man said, on 2nd MT tour, “Feels like a sweater’s being knit on my tongue,” referring to the texture of the ’09 single vineyard Cab. Just found it interesting, his selection of imagery. Both men, from Pittsburgh, PA. Seemed to be the state yesterday. 1 tour I did, four ladies from MI, 1 man from NJ.
Today, TR. Note everything with single words. Names, places, images…
Time in office, here on laptop, 8:23am. No coffee yet. But if I go get some, whether at that corporate bean brothel or just downstairs, it’ll take from sitting. MY head, a little hurt from the little red wine I had last night with parents. So would I be, not able to out tonight as I once used to [age..]. What’s important: THE BOOK. Tonight, printing 103 pages. Hope I have enough ink. I do, don’t I? Just bought this cartridge. Alice has used it a bit. Ugh, my thoughts bumpy. Need coffee, poetry, solitude. What if I called in? That wouldn’t look good, especially when I show downtown, later. Again, without coffee I can’t be as I am, optimal writer.
Have to get these pages printed tonight. No exception. Pulling up doc.. 11 more pages till 103. I’ll do half & half, older entries to new streaming. It has to get done! Not spending the rest of my life telling how I’m writing a book, how I’ll SELF-publish it. That stops, before I’m 34.
A song in French comes on, makes me of course think of getting espresso on Montparnasse, early, an that little stand by the hotel, with the woman who always greeted us her her highly sweet volume and pitch: “BONJOUR!” Now I do need coffee, horribly. Pretend I’m there, in my city. All over my desk, as always: papers, and [no so as-always] cash. Putting much of the latter in SELF-publishing stash. And I’m NOT touching it this time. In fact, I hope I forget about it.
Just stuffed in between two files of old writings in the small file case. Might visit those tonight, for book additions. This book, the more I think about it, definitely a blend; a situational, reactionary, momentary cuvée. I’m not shooting for linearity. And maybe it’s not a novel. Or maybe it is.
Why do I need a category? Genre?
8:37am. Making mySelf rise at 8:40. Trying to think of what I want to do for dinner this evening. What sounds good? Coffee, honestly. Look at me, a mess. “Mike a mess,” a title I thought of the other day for a book. Came to me when I hear my New Zealand friend at work, Blair the oenologist, say to one of the cellar workers, “And don’t make a mess.” Sounded like he said ‘and don’t Mike a mess.’ So, I thought of mySelf as a mess, sometimes, or many times, as a writer. Total blood mess… May have something in this title entertainment. Book2? Rising…
7:09pm. Home. You have no idea how much I’ve been stressing, how anxious I’ve been in getting to these keys. I’m not going out tonight without getting some writing done. And getting to 103 in book. Ordered one of those artisanal burgers from the place on 12. And I’m starved, especially after today’s pace. Give me a sec to eat, and you’ll have my undivided. Oh, 2009 Roth AV Cab paired with plate…
My order number, 88. Odd, as 8’s my “lucky” number. Going to temper mySelf tonight, in many respects. Need to stay in writing mode, record observations, trap them. I’m Nick, at one of G’s parties. This Cab, quite strong for the burger, I’m surprised. Oh, and the burger’s mushroom-swiss. […] 7:47pm. Finishing dinner. And I’m putting off book obligation till tomorrow, maybe. Want to live tonight, maybe write a little less. Mom said that it could be advantageous to take a little break from writing. I’m not taking a break, as I’m writing right now, but I will cut Self off at a certain point, to go live, tonight.
NOTE, from yesterday: On 1st MT tour, girls from MI noticed a snake, named it Merlot. Garter, no rattler.
NOTE, from today: Proposal in caves. Didn’t see it coming. It was like something out of a movie. I didn’t know how to react. The lighting was perfect, the acoustics, crowd size. It reminded me of Paris, with the romantic coating garnishing each second.
8:04pm. Why do I stress, obsess so much over writing? ‘Cause I’m a writer? Need to think about what I want from tonight’s outing, as launch time approaches. Just the randomness. Please note: right now, here in condo castle, I sip slow, and I’ve been eating, so I’m departing from base quite focused, with Literary face. Did Nick think about any of this? Doesn’t matter. My thoughts, thinking.. already WRITTEN.
This Cab, opening up to smoothness, poetry. Which is just what the writer needs. From tonight, rest of Life. Thinking of just racking ten pages into book– No. Don’t do that. Have it be quality. Tomorrow, need focus, as well. Dynamics have changed on Estate’s plain. But it won’t affect me. I refuse to let it. I’m a writer, and if “the industry” has a problem with it, then let’s settle it however it need be resolved, solved.
Watching Pulp Fiction. Haven’t seen this in years. On VH1. Totally censored. Revolting. Made a note in little pages today to write 500 words on Emerson’s “The Poet.” But it won’t happen tonight. Need more academic writing, for class, other streamings. Other Theaters. Not necessarily academic. Just discussion’d.
Time to ready pen, my character, for night. Temperament. Night’s thematic anchor.. manuscript motif. This eve, its own book, reaching into other books. Gatsby.